Her fingers were tipped with magic, they teased at the strings of her guitar, sweetening the air around and stealing me away from my own thoughts. The sun danced to her medleys, her lips, full with passion and grace traced out words to new worlds that lived in song. Her whole body was immersed in music, the passion filled her cheeks with life, they dawned a scarlet warmth that radiated from the brightest smile, with a single shallow dimple poked into her left cheek. Her nose did a little dance as she sang, she’d sway to the music and disappear behind her thick lashes.

At first, I only heard the music. It was enriching the painting of the summers day unfolded in front of me. I was sat beneath the giant Elm tree, scribbling away at my notepad and working my way through a book. Between watching the park fill with a mosaic of faces, coaxed into frenzy by the summers brilliance, I’d peck away at chapters of my book and scatter words onto the blank pages of my note book. It was out of curiosity that I turned her way, the sound of that guitar pried me out of my world of words and ushered me into the pulsating current of polyphonic brilliance. I adjusted to face the music, and there she was, enjoying her picnic for one. Enjoying herself, making merry in accordance with the radiant delight of summer.

She had won my audience, I listened in appreciation. The music had perforated the last barrier that would have deemed us strangers. We became two residents of the same home, inhabitants of the same present, woven together by music. The notes she played nurtured our smiles into nods, which opened the door through which the two worlds bled through.

The prelude our initial interaction had glossed my impression of her richly, we had no problem diving into engaging conversation, Pealing away the layers in a jovial joust, fighting away the thin veneer of  the unknown that lingered. I spoke of words, she spoke of music. Music meant so much to her, she adopted a certain vulnerability when she talked about her music. She spoke sweetly and full of certainty,  she spoke as she sang, with captivating grace, hooking me with every sentence she uttered. She had these eyes, these shy eyes. Like a sobered tempest, still, blue, teasing up a storm in every glance, they traced my features and welcomed my gaze, filling me with warmth. She had a character of intriguing allure. She wore her hair boldly, a rebellious blonde that swept one way, just reaching low enough to hide her ear lobs, and gently framed her radiant face, it complemented her boisterous nature perfectly.

The hours were dwarfed into endless strands of a mutual fascination. Fleeting minutes, falling over to the next in haste, time was passing us. I unwrapped every chapter of her mind with zeal and wonder, she wandered into my labyrinth of nuances and quirks, with surprising delight. The conversation caught fire and consumed the day light. The cold air that rushed along her soft skin was  a sure sign it was time to go home. We parted ways with a promise. We promised to hunt down any open mics and poetry slams. We spoke everyday and fantasized about chasing storms. Vibrant storms, where music and words can catch fire once more.